


Moonlight Sonata

by MyHeartIsAHammer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, very slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:24:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyHeartIsAHammer/pseuds/MyHeartIsAHammer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks he's hidden his feelings, once he actually identifies and understands them, and John is perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlight Sonata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashyfiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyfiction/gifts).



> Un-beta'd, late night posting, absolutely all mistakes and gaffes and idiocy is mine. I haven't written-written in a very long time. My bike-riding skills are quite rusty.
> 
> Happy 23rd birthday, my love!

It’s early; 3 am at least Sherlock decides, judging by the position of the Harvest Moon  _Singing Moon, Wine Moon_ shining through the bedroom windows. John’s room on the top floor is lighter than Sherlock’s; the moon is so much brighter here. Sherlock’s bedroom windows are shaded by the rise of the building across the street, shrouding his room in darkness and making it an easier place in which he could ignore and deny everything that had changed between them these last few months, if he so chose. Bury himself in The Work, or his violin. And on not-infrequent occasions which he does not acknowledge in the light of day, the dark of Sherlock’s room allowed his mind to race from scenario to scenario  _no, stop_ , to stage moments and analyze from every angle  _touch, no, delete_ , to entertain the possibility  _no, risk_. He finds there is no place for pretending in John’s room, unencumbered as its windows are by the building across the street, at the mercy of the glow of this huge full moon. Here in John’s room (in the middle of John’s bed, the lazy heat of John’s back pressed to Sherlock’s front, the patterns and texture of John’s torso  _scarred, soft_ permanently marking itself on Sherlock’s, the lightweight cotton of Sherlock’s pajama pants pulling across his hip from where John shifted in his sleep to align himself more closely to Sherlock’s body), the light from that moon demands honesty. Demands transparency. Demands decision.

 

Three hours, seventeen minutes, and twenty-four- _now-twenty-five-now-twenty-six_  seconds ago, John had looked at Sherlock in the doorway of 221B, removed his hand from the pocket of his coat, and  _fingers, three, gentle, slow_  swept through the curls on Sherlock’s forehead, with quiet determination saying “Right. The thing is, it’ll only ever be you.” He’d smiled then, reverently brushed Sherlock’s temple with his lips  _delicate, tender, stars_ , and walked the rest of the steps up to his bedroom with Sherlock simply looking up after him.

 

Sherlock’s legs had finally carried him to his room and seated him on his bed; he’d stared blankly at his bedroom door for almost two hours waiting for the whirling mass of thoughts to coalesce into something tangible. It had taken him four months after John moved in to identify “relief” as his primary response to All Things John. John soothed Sherlock’s mind; made everything else quiet, like the way the fan in the laptop sounded when the battery got too hot  _too hot his skin is too hot,_  or the white noise from the television when the weather knocked out the signal  _there’s no signal, no data, input overload, it’s just whirring_. One month after that, Sherlock had identified the other feeling. In his darkened bedroom, had recognized it and then imagined telling Joh-  _no, stop, don’t;_  had bottled it up and compartmentalized; had folded everything into tight squares of paper  _swans, origami swans, John had made him origami swans after the Chinese circus_ and secured them in the deepest recesses of his Mind Palace. But like the cigarettes and nicotine patches, like the cocaine before that, John had made everything sharper. Brighter. Purer. So if swans had glided through cracks in the foundation of that massive structure, causing Sherlock’s hands to graze against John’s inside taxis and on the sofa, his ears to listen for the stilted typing of blog entries or rustling of newspaper, his eyes to linger on the ritual of tea preparation while John’s eyes lingered on him, Sherlock had been entirely unaware.

 

“Sherlock?” John sighs, not really awake, the name not much more than the soft expelling of breath, all of the questions in that one word carried on oxygen up through the cilia of his lungs and emitted as if the actual creation of the sound was accidental, his hand reaching over the slope of his shoulder, fingers  _soft_ ,  _sleep-heavy_  settling onto Sherlock’s, the weight of them both acknowledgement and request.

 

 “John.”

 

Sherlock’s long fingers gently squeeze John’s where they are entwined, John already burrowing back into sleep, his hand pulling Sherlock’s down and under his arm, pressing it to his heart  _beat we beat we beat we_ , Sherlock’s face drifting down to fit into the nape of John’s neck and Sherlock’s eyes closing in a silent plea that this moon never set; that its light endlessly illuminate the language of their skin speaking the words of their hearts.


End file.
